Notebook 052

Heavy heavy sleep burdens upon my eyelids, I fear turning morning into afternoon. Rub rub awake. Rinse. Repeat. My eyelashes lain wet from hilt (or weight) of salty dew. Getting lost in linen and washing the day away with laughter. Sweated smells from the dark night of that lay here before, strong and surrounding. I am wet with odour. The watered wash of lethargy and sleep glistens my limbs and holds them still. I am awake but not arisen. Folds of cloth have been my fashion for this Sunday sky. Tainted from behind a dirty windowpane, the sight of the cold and wind outside makes me heated. It is cold here but I lay warm from what is painted into my eyes. Stark white walls clean and crisp wrap the smog inside. I am your filthy little Christmas present.